


To Cast a Hook

by stereomer



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:38:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereomer/pseuds/stereomer





	To Cast a Hook

“Jesus Christ,” Brian yelped. He instinctively dropped his cell phone onto the floor mid-text and barely managed to cross his legs tightly together in time to block out Frank’s hand from grabbing at his crotch. A chorus of ‘boo’s sounded from all corners of the van. Even Matt was booing while looking at them through the rearview mirror instead of the fucking road for entirely too long. The venue would be coming up soon, and Brian preferred that they all didn’t die before they reached it. 

“What the hell was that?” Brian looked around at all of them and was completely ignored in response. 

“Minus one for Frank. Write that down, dude,” Mikey instructed Gerard, who stuck out his pointer finger and drew an invisible tally in front of himself. 

“Oh, wait, no.” Gerard made a show of cutting his finger horizontally through the air, in what was presumably a minus sign. 

“Aw, shit. Who’s winning now?” Frank sighed. 

Gerard looked thoughtful. “I don’t know if there’s a clear winner, but Ray is obviously in last place as of this moment.”

“What – you’ve run out of entertainment, so now you’re playing ‘Crotch Grabbers’?” Brian finally asked. He still had his legs crossed, hips angled slightly toward the wall of the van. 

Frank hugged Brian’s headrest and tucked his chin over it. “That’s a terrible name for it. It at least has to have alliteration. Like – like ‘Dick Dodging’.”

“’Crotch Catchers’,” Ray suggested from the passenger seat, squeezing his face between his own headrest and the seatbelt hanger. 

“’Penis Poachers’,” Gerard yelled. 

Instant hysterics. This was the band that was supposed to save lives and change the world. Brian scrunched his mouth to one side to keep from laughing. “Fuck off, I’m not playing.”

“Oh, come on.” Frank swooped his hand down again, grabbing ineffectually at Brian’s belt before Brian slapped him away. “Come on!” He tried once more; Brian slapped him away again, harder this time, as another round of ‘boo’s started up. 

“Dude, minus  _ten_  for Frank,” Matt commented. 

“Yo, seriously. How drunk do I have to get you in order for me to grab your dick, Schechter?” Frank asked. Gerard pulled the sleeve of his sweater over his hand and giggled into it.

“Drunk enough for me to die of fucking liver failure,” Brian answered loudly in order to cover up the way his lips twitched. He bent over and plucked his cell phone up from the pile of – he didn’t even know, but whatever it was, it was stinking up the van to holy hell. Mikey called out an “ohhhh, shit” as Frank laughed without a trace of embarrassment, then slouched in his seat and kicked the back of Brian’s. 

“Asshole. You’re breaking my heart here.”

Brian turned around, finally letting the tension drain out of his muscles now that it looked like Frank had retreated. “Tough luck. Leave me out of your dick affairs next time,” Brian told him. Frank just tilted his chin upward in a slightly imperial jut and smiled defiantly. 

Thankfully, the game came to a definite end when Gerard pressed his index finger to the window and called out, “Oh, there it is.” Matt jerked the wheel to the right and they all slid to the left, Brian splaying a hand against the wall for balance as they turned into a gravel-filled lot. 

By the looks of it, the bar wasn’t anything special – made of the usual rotting slats of wood, with shingles missing in chunks and a slew of motorcycles parked in a row out front. The van trundled over to the entrance, tires struggling for traction over the loose piles of rocks before coming to a weary stop. Gerard was sliding the door open before Matt even turned off the engine and they all piled out one after another, with Frank pausing to push his hand against the back of Brian’s head like they were kids in a school bus. Brian went along with it, if only to save himself the strain on his neck, and rolled his eyes when Frank leaned over the back of the seat and pressed a kiss into his hair. 

Once they all disappeared into the bar, Brian slid the keys out from the ignition and zipped them into a safe space within his backpack; on his way out, he surreptitiously kicked some of the smaller pieces of garbage onto the ground. Then he made sure the doors were locked and that the windows were rolled up before finally heading after them.

 

*

 

The show was okay. Not spectacular, but not horridly bad, either. Brian actually preferred it to be either of those two, because okay shows all blended together in his head and made it hard to predict what the next step would be. He was feeling good, though, because at least nothing was broken and they had a full tank of gas and a working vehicle to get their asses on the road first thing – or maybe sixth thing – the following morning. Plus, there had been drinks, and then drinking games, and then drinks to commemorate the end of the drinking games. Brian had taken part because even though he never considered himself fully off the clock, midnight was a good time to relax a little and celebrate the small things, like making it to the venue on time, or seeing people actually buy some of their merch. 

Brian tore his eyes away from Matt’s reenactment of Gerard two weeks ago, when a gas station attendant had accused him of shoplifting, as he felt someone lay a hand on his shoulder. It was Frank, kissing the pads of his first two fingers and mouthing, “Smoke? Outside?”

“Sure,” Brian said, sliding off the stool and weaving through people until he reached the entrance where Frank was waiting, holding the door open against his back. “Thanks.”

It was surprisingly quiet once the door clicked shut. Brian cupped his hands around his cigarette and lit it, listening to the sounds of the occasional passing car and crickets somewhere out in the distance. He thought of home as he steadily exhaled smoke and watched it dissipate against the inky, sometime-past-two-in-the-morning color of the sky. The haze over his vision made everything seem philosophical. “You know, somewhere, sometime, we’re twenty-somethings living in the suburbs and working some dead end job, wondering where to go next.”

“Like in a parallel universe?” Frank asked with a snort, unruffled by the random topic. Brian supposed that's what happened when you spent every day with Gerard Way. 

“Yes,” Brian replied challengingly, but he ruined it by smiling. 

Frank exhaled in a  _whoosh_  and contemplated the thought. Finally, he said, “Yeah, but. Instead we live in a van with like, eighteen other dudes. I’d say that’s pretty close to what you just said.” 

He danced to the side as Brian tried to flick ashes onto his shoes, and then kept walking even after Brian stuck the cigarette back into his mouth. Eventually he made a big circle and came back within speaking distance, ending up a lot closer to Brian than he’d been before.

“I think we would be those guys, if you hadn’t picked us up,” he mused. 

Brian noticed that Frank’s eyes were tinged with pink, a little more heavy lidded than usual. Drinking always showed first on his face, and second in the volume of his laugh. Third in the way he kept licking his lips and hanging loose-limbed from whoever’s shoulders were available. 

“Please. I practically had to get down on one knee and propose to each and every one of you.” Brian rubbed his chin with the heel of his wrist, smiling slowly as the memory played through his mind. 

Frank grinned and tossed his cigarette to the ground. “I’d be your wife,” he murmured, leaning close, eyes flickering down to Brian’s neck and then back up, slowly, purposefully. Brian immediately wanted to laugh – he almost did, in fact, but Frank only had the barest of smiles on his face, and fuck. If there was anyone who could make something like that sound like a come on and actually manage to pull it off, it was Frank. 

“You’d be my wife,” Brian repeated for lack of anything better to say. Silence would have been better, on second thought. 

“Mm hm,” Frank almost sing-songed, and there, a flicker of tongue over his bottom lip. He stepped closer. Brian reflexively took a step back. 

“Frank.” When he didn’t move away, Brian smiled out, “Frank. What are you doing?”, like this was a big joke. Part of him wanted Frank to stop, to scrub a hand over his face and laugh it off while looking meaningfully back at the bar with a shrug.

Brian tried not to think about what the other part of him wanted. He never managed to get drunk enough not to know better, or even just to ignore the fact that he knew better. This made him feel old and weary. 

“Brian,” Frank said. “Brian, Brian, Brian.” A strange look passed over his face, but then his expression relaxed as he smiled big, the corners of his mouth pulling up loosely. The sound of laughter rang out in the darkness, and then, “Fuck dude, I’m wasted,” he declared. 

Even as Frank spoke, Brian could practically feel the weird tension draining out and away. Whatever was there before had gone and now it was just Frank standing there with his hands in his pockets, slouching a little and making his frame even smaller against the backlights of the neon blue sign behind him.

“You’re cold,” Brian said, also relaxing. This was familiar territory now, him telling the guys what the situation was or what to do.  _Call your mom_ , he’d tell Mikey or Gerard;  _Pay your credit card bill and get your tube amp fixed_ , to Ray. And now,  _you’re cold and drunk, don’t fucking do it._

“Yeah, but it feels nice,” Frank said. He sniffled. The air had a little bite in it but the sky was clear, the dirt beneath their shoes parched brown and dusty.

Brian rolled his eyes. “Don’t get sick, asshole. Come on, we’re going back inside.” 

He let his cigarette fall from his fingers – he hadn’t even inhaled from the last half of it – and wrapped the same hand around the apex of Frank’s elbow with the intention of turning him around, but then Frank’s free arm shot out and he grabbed a fistful of Brian’s t-shirt. When he pulled with surprising strength, Brian felt gravel scrape under his shoes and then Frank’s lips bumped against his chin.

“Oops,” Frank giggled, and still, the instinct to react didn’t kick in. Frank shook off Brian’s grip with ease and pressed his palm against the back of Brian’s head.

There was a tiny pause, a stutter in Frank’s movements as he shifted up a little, but then they were kissing anyway. Frank’s mouth was warm, in contrast to the slight chill of wind against both their backs, and it seemed he hadn’t lost any of his motor skills to alcohol because his hands held steady, his tongue moving slow and deliberate against Brian’s own. 

It felt nice. More than nice. Brian was standing outside a bar, in a city that was soaked with the remnants of a deep summer heat, and tasting beer from the mouth of a band member. Everything was strangely fitting and fucked up.

Brian finally broke away – he’d been leaning forward, and couldn’t remember when that had happened – and murmured, “Whoa. Hey.”

“Hi,” Frank grinned from inches away. He was still buzzed, Brian could see it on his face, felt it thrumming under his hands, which were currently placed over Frank’s hips. He couldn’t remember when that had happened, either. 

Sometimes he hated being the designated responsible one. It sounded like such a proper noun and always made him think of Snow White’s fucking dwarves. What he wanted to do was shed his position for one moment, to feel that heat from Frank’s mouth over his dick, to act on an impulse without risking the consequences hanging around for the rest of his fucking life. What he needed to do was to  _not_  do that. Even to rest his forehead against Frank’s and groan, “fuuuuuuuck,” before pushing away would have been somewhat satisfying, but it would betray too much. 

Instead, he dropped his hands in one clean motion and took a few steps so that he was standing a little ways past Frank. He stumbled a bit, which made him remember that he too was more than half-drunk and would most likely wake up with a heavy head and an ache in his gums.

_Fuck fuck fuck_. He pictured himself saying it, flicking the word out efficiently with his teeth. 

“Hey. Let’s go,” he said, keeping his voice mild. “Back inside, I mean.” He had to turn his head a little to speak in Frank’s direction. 

“Sure,” Frank responded good-naturedly. He fell into step with Brian, and Brian couldn’t help but look up. Frank’s eyes were bright, his hair a little mussed. Everything about him was unfazed, save for the tiny quirk of his eyebrows, but then Brian thought maybe he imagined it as they stepped out of the glow of the streetlights.

He pushed the door open with one hand. A swell of noise greeted them – voices, glasses clinking, several bursts of laughter, the  _click-clack_  of pool balls. Frank ducked under Brian’s outstretched arm and walked into the bar; Brian took one last cool breath and followed.


End file.
